


Origins

by releasetheglitch



Series: When We Start [6]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: BDSM, Collars, M/M, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 15:50:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3901999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/releasetheglitch/pseuds/releasetheglitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A wedding. A collaring. A pair of sentimental idiots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Origins

**Author's Note:**

> catelavie requested: could you please write something about beginning, like how they find out (Bond that Q is submissive) and how they get together and describe their ceremony?

The flowers were white.

James Bond blinked at the heap that adorned his kitchen table, fat bunches tumbling onto the floor, petals rustling in the light breeze from the one open window. White roses. Freshly picked, giving off a sweet, airy perfume that somehow mixed delightfully well with the aroma of early morning French toast and coffee.

Special order from the Kensington gardens. He didn't know who had enough power and time to make sure that even his flowers— _the fucking flowers_ —were perfect. Probably Eve. She had immersed herself in this whole affair as soon as the invitation had reached her (heavy black cardstock paper with gold leaf lettering, because they were going all out, apparently). Which was just as well because he was James Bond, and he knew every pressure point on a man's body that would render him unconscious, and how to disarm any gun in the world blindfolded, and he hadn't the faintest clue how to pick a _colour scheme,_ or what the _fuck accent colours_ were, or why he needed them for his—

Right. Because today was—today he would—god, the most important day of his life and he was gaping at a heap of bloody _roses_ , trying to fathom how his life had diverged so drastically from the way he'd imagined it five years ago.

(The answer, he suspected, was the messy-haired lump currently drooling all over his best silk pillows.

The lump whose faint snores could be heard even from down the hallway.)

The one who'd, after today, be _his._ Completely and utterly his, and wasn't that just, God, the thought was far too immense for a man who hadn't even had his first cup of coffee yet. Not that he could reach his mug, buried as it was under a mountain of roses and really. Why did they even need so many?

He glowered.

The flowers were white, and he was having a breakdown.

***

_Then_

 

"Fancy seeing you here," James purred, one hand falling firmly on the shoulder of the slender boy he had been watching for the better part of an hour.

The boy whipped around, and James' brain froze for a few moments because he hadn't noticed from a distance, but those guileless green eyes were lined in black kohl. Smokey and mysterious, obviously applied by a practiced hand—here James imagined him half-naked, gangly limbs sprawled out in front of his bathroom mirror and leaning so far in his breath fogged up the glass, tracing black lines over his eyelids. Wide lips curling up in satisfaction as Stern Boffin turned into Sex Incarnate.

Green eyes widened for a minute before shuttering closed, the flicker of emotion disappearing before James could catalogue it and settling into his usual, arrogant mask. "Bond," Q greeted politely. "To what do I owe this...pleasure?" He dragged the last word out like honey, like molasses, like spun sugar, and James wanted to describe in aching detail just what kind of _pleasure_ he could provide.

"You ought to be more careful," he said instead. "Imagine the scandal that would occur if word got out that one of the Company's top employees were spotted in a place like this."

To his amusement, Q snorted. "And who's going to report me? You?" Long elegant fingers danced obscenely on Bond's leather-clad legs, brushing for just a minute over the inside of his thighs before withdrawing. "Somehow, I don't think you will. In fact," he leaned towards James' ear, hot breath tickling the sensitive skin there. "I think you came here for the same reasons as me."

A boffin with bite. James had known since the Skyfall mission that Q was feisty and snarky and took no shite from any of his agents, but here, in the strobing lights and pounding beat of the club, he found it almost unbearably erotic. "Maybe not the exact same reasons," he drawled, one hand tugging pointedly on the ragged scrap of leather that lined Q's throat in emphasis.

Q, for his part, seemed to enjoy the manhandling all too much, judging from the way a distinct bulge could be seen rising in the front of his trousers. "My lucky day then," he grinned, stepping so far into Bond's personal space that he could feel Q's breath on his skin and the slight movements of his hips in time with the music.

James contemplated his reply. He wanted to tempt Q into his bed, to move in between his thighs and feel the boy's breath beside his on top of ruined sheets, press spit-slick kisses to salty skin and map every inch of him with his tongue like a blind man at confessional. More than that, he wanted to see Q helpless in his ropes, to see the way his arse would sway as he crawled at James' feet, to see pale flesh glowing red under the relentless assault of his paddle, and hear his sweet sobs as he fell apart under Bond's ministrations. He was sure that Q wanted it too, but didn't want to be too upfront and scare the sensual creature in front of him away forever. The waves of lust washing over him were so strong, it took all his self-control not to throw Q to the ground and ravish him right there and then.

The music changed, morphing into a dreamy, seductive beat with a bass line that shook the floor, and James made up his mind. "Dance with me," he demanded, spinning Q around and fitting his hands into the grooves of his sharp hipbones.

***

_Now_

 

"Alec Trevelyan, touch those lobster puffs and I'll disembowel you!"

Alec came into the living room, looking like a scolded puppy and crashing down beside James with a massive sigh. "Your wedding planner's bonkers," he moaned, shaking his head mournfully. "Absolutely bonkers."

At the sound of the W-word, James grimaced. "Not a wedding."

"Yeah, yeah," Alec flapped a hand dismissively, propping his feet up on the coffee table. "But you have to admit, 'collaring ceremony planner' just doesn't have the same ring to it."

Collaring ceremony.

Q. Sweet and brilliant and fierce and brave Q. His.

Anxiety welled up in his throat and James fought back a physical wave of panic. He didn’t know what he had done in a previous life to deserve the love and trust of Q—probably single-handedly saved a small nation full of children and kittens and all that shite, but _fuck_ he _loved_ him and he wanted so _badly_ to prove it to everyone except that chance was _today_ and he wasn’t ready. What if he forgot the words, or what if Q hated his vows, or decided he didn't like the collar they'd picked out after all, or left him at the altar for that asshole Steve in Accounting who’d been making eyes at him—

The mug in his hand shattered, sending lukewarm coffee all over his t-shirt.

“If you die of a heart attack, I get dibs on your boy,” Alec said, cheerily.

“Piss off,” James groaned, flipping him the bird.

Alec, fancying himself a philanthropist, tossed what in his defense he probably thought to be a handkerchief at James. Unfortunately, it turned out to be a greasy napkin covered in ketchup stains. James gave him a death glare.

“Sorry, sorry,” Alec grinned. “Cheer up, mate! You’re getting married tonight!”

A beat of silence from James, and Alec’s eyebrows raised.

“You _are_ getting married—or whatever the kinky equivalent of getting married is—tonight, aren't you? Cause I hate to say it, but if you've got cold feet now Eve might actually murder you. And Q would ensure your body was never found again."

James heaved a sigh, picking up one of the framed pictures of him and Q on vacation. Q’s normally pale skin was tanned under the Italian sun. His shirt was unbuttoned and falling off one shoulder as he stared at James with obvious adoration. James himself looked ten years younger without the armour of a bespoke suit. Without the lines around his eyes or the hard set of a clenched jaw, he looked happy. Carefree. He looked like someone who still had an unblemished soul. Like someone who deserved to be saved.

No, that wasn't a lump in his throat. He was not about to cry before the ceremony's even started, like some sort of sentimental, emotional teenager. Sod that.

He cleared his throat gruffly. "No—I mean, yeah. Yeah. Still getting married."

"Good. Because if you make our Quartermaster cry I might even help them kill you. I happen to like the kid. He gives me things that explode."

"Glad to know our years of friendship mean so much to you," James grumbled. And because despite popular opinion, Alec did have a measure of tact, he pretended not to see Bond dabbing at his eyes with the crumpled-up napkin.

***

_Then_

 

Q was a brilliant dancer.

He moved like sin, sinuously twisting in James' arms like the snake in the garden of Eden. The plush curve of his arse—and _oh_ what an arse it was, shapely and rounded and utterly fuckable—grinding against his already aching cock in a parody of sex. James bent down to lick at his nape and tasted salted caramel, and sweat and liquor and desire and it was all so bloody intoxicating, he could sleep with anyone he wanted to but he'd never wanted anyone as much as he wanted Q in that moment.

Why the hell was he so addictive? Why couldn't he keep his hands off the boy, who for all intents and purposes was his superior at work, who he hadn't thought about in any sexual degree until he saw him tonight?

He switched his grip on Q's hips to run one hand over Q's chest, cupping his pectorals like he would a woman's breast. Q shuddered, and James took that as encouragement to keep going. He rubbed two fingers against one of Q's nipples, massaging relentlessly until the small bud pebbled under his ministrations. Q bucked, hard, seemingly unable to control the movement of his hips and they're one step away from full-out fucking in the middle of the dance floor. There's definitely eyes on them but Bond can't be arsed to care. Let them all see how responsive Q is. They can't have him.

The music crescendoed into a frenzy. Q turned until they were face to face, cocks pressed against one another and he tipped his head back in a blissed out moan as James purposefully ground their hips together. Lights flashed. White. Red. Blue. Every time they came on was like a snapshot of Q's face frozen in pleasure, pupils dilated with desire and cheeks flushed, lips swollen and bitten like he'd been sucking cock for the better part of an hour. James could feel the bass reverberating throughout his entire body, thudding in his chest as if syncing to his heartbeat.

Their lips crashed. James kissed hungrily, a conqueror laying claim to his land. His tongue slipped unforgivingly into Q's mouth, pillaging the orifice until Q had to lean back for breath. James gave him three seconds of reprieve, panting and breathless and so fucking needy, before he plunged in again. Q submitted sweetly, letting James tongue-fuck his mouth. Letting him nip his lips and suck the air from his lungs and making the most delicious whimpering noises. One of James' hands slipped into Q's trousers, just trousers, because Q was absolutely _filthy_ and had apparently chosen to forego pants. Grasping a handful of flesh, he squeezed, hard. Imagining how that pert little arse would ripple and redden under his slaps. Q keened, blatantly canting his hips upwards into Bond's greedy hands, and James took it as invitation to go one step further, one finger slipping between velvet cheeks to find—

Plastic, nestled against soft flesh.

A plug.

That was _it_. That was the last straw. James growled, taking a handful of Q's sweaty hair and pulling, hard. Q gasped and fell against him, eyes beginning to water.

"We're going back to my place," James said in a hard tone. "I'm going to tie you to my bed and fuck you with that plug until you can't even _think_ with how much you want cock. And then you'll beg me for it, beg me to fill you up until I'm convinced you deserve it. Only then will I fuck you the way you need to be fucked, and I promise you right now that after I'm done with you, you won't be able to walk straight the next day."

He could hardly believe the filth that was spewing from his mouth. All his plans for taking it slow, for negotiations and discussions of past experiences vanished under the weight of Q’s heavy lust. He had to take the boy, immediately.

Q chuckled breathily, looking as if Christmas had come early. "Don't make promises you can't keep."

***

_Now_

 

By the time Q woke up, James and Alec had already been put to work doing the decorations. Sure, make a man set up for his own wed _—ceremony_. Whatever. That's fine. Never say that James Bond isn't willing to do his part for the greater good.

"Are those—are you making flower crowns?"

James huffed in offense at his young lover, still bleary-eyed and looking almost unbelievably adorable with a blanket draped over his shoulders. "First of all, they're garlands. For tonight, in case you'd forgotten. Secondly, is that my shirt?"

Q picked at the black t-shirt that went halfway down his thighs and whose neckline threatened to slip off his shoulders. "No."

"You told me it got lost in the wash," James accused, eyes narrowed.

"I did no such thing." And really, for a senior executive in the Secret Service, Q had no poker face to speak of. He plopped onto James' lap, sleepy green eyes blinking up at him in what he probably thought was a guileless expression. James found it hopelessly charming. "You're going senile. Old man."

"I'm the senile old man who's going to spank your arse red if you keep this up," said James, cheerily.

A loud bang nearly startled Q off of Bond's lap. Alec glared at them both from where he had thrown down his flowers in disgust. "Christ, you're both nauseating. Go get a room and shag it out, why don't you."

"You'd be more intimidating if you weren't covered in roses, double-oh six," Q observed. "By the way, why _do_ we need so many roses? I'll be picking petals out of my hair for weeks to come if this is any indication of what's to come."

“Don’t let Eve hear you say that,” warned Alec. Privately, James agreed, suppressing a wince at the thought of what she’d do if either of them expressed anything less than utter appreciation towards the (admittedly tremendous) amount of effort she’d put in. The woman had already shot him once before, he didn’t fancy a repeat attempt.

Q just shrugged, apparently unconcerned. But then again, Eve liked _him_ a hell of a lot better than the two agents deemed on more than one occasion to be ‘reckless, honey-tongued cavemen in suits’. “Anything for me to do? If not, I’m going to be heavily side-eyeing your insistence that I take the entirety of today off.”

“I think Eve would appreciate some help with the food. Or…”

“Or?” The mischievous gleam in Q’s eyes implied he knew exactly what _or_ meant.

“Or we could have a personal trial run for tonight. Preparation is key, as M seems so fond of telling us.”

Alec glared sullenly at his pile of roses. “Whatever you do, keep it in your pants until I’m out of the room at least.”

His complaints went unheard as James hoisted Q up, steadying him with a laugh as Q’s limbs flailed and he threatened to squirm out of James’ arms.

***

_Then_

“Stay,” calls James into the first lights of dawn. Q struggles out of the sheets, a line of inky bruises smudged across the curve of his hips. _He looks like an angel,_ James thinks fuzzily.

“Not today.”

***

_Now_

 

Eve had truly done a beautiful job. The gazebo was decorated with roses, both red and white, and garlands of tiny, sparkling lights that cast everything in soft shadows. Paper lanterns lined the walkway, and he could see the tables laden with food off to the side. Alec, who had apparently forgiven them from nearly shagging five feet away from him that morning, twitched in the suit he had been forced into but still grinned at them from his place on the steps of the gazebo. Beside him was Eve, radiant in a blue dress and betraying no sign that she had spent the majority of the day shouting at every person in attendance. The music began playing, some light, trilling melody that hung in the evening air like perfume, and James straightened.

He took a deep, steadying breath. Q’s hand tightened around his and he glanced over at the young man.

“Ready?” Q asked, sweet and eager and every bit as terrified as he was. It gave him the strength he needed to squeeze his hand back in assurance.

“Ready.”

They took their flowers in hand. A red one for James, the largest and sweetest smelling one he had seen yet. A white one for Q, not yet in full bloom but fragile and elegant. There were hardly five steps to the gazebo where their friends waited for them, but for James it felt like the longest walk of his life.

 _Step._ Q laughing in his pajamas on a Sunday morning, mouth stuffed full with pancakes and globs of whipped cream on his nose that James leans in to lick clean.

   
_Step._ Wandering down to Q-branch, pulling up a chair beside his brilliant lover and watching him solder thin wires together. Clever fingers manipulating switches and lights so small he marveled at their dexterity. Refilling his mug whenever the supply seemed to be running low.

   
_Step._ Releasing his sweaty, glowing body from the chains and having him sprawl down beside him. Or not, and going in for one last strike, hearing his voice break and crack and breathy moans escaping from lips bitten red.

_Step._

Q had come to James with this idea. Tablet in hand, for once he had looked hesitant about asking James for something, even though he knew—he had to know—that James would never mock him for any request.

“It’s very...there’s a lot of symbolism behind it,” he had mumbled bashfully, presenting the tablet to James like a chastised schoolboy handing in his report. “I’ll understand if you prefer something simpler. I just thought—”

And James had kissed the deflections off his lips and told him it was a beautiful idea.

Now, he reached out for the unlocked collar that Alec presented him with, tucking his rose into the breast pocket of his suit. It was a new collar that he and Q had picked out together, despite tradition (“If you’re going to be the one wearing it on a semi-permanent basis, we may as well ensure that you _like_ the bloody thing”). It was made from thick, buttery Italian leather, dark brown with four gleaming D-rings and a little metal tag proclaiming “property of Bond” sewn into the back of the collar. The inside was lined with soft fur, because Q’s skin was sensitive and became irritated easily. The locking mechanism was embedded into the leather—one size only. It was custom made, meant to fit Q and only Q.

The night seemed to hold its breath, swollen with silence as Eve held out a candle and James quickly passed the length of leather through the flames. Light glinted off the metal as James tilted it this way and that, inspecting it for damage. There was none, only a faint heat and the scent of smoky leather, and he pressed the strip to the hollow of Q's throat.

"With this collar, I swear to care for you, to guide and cherish you until the rest of my days," he rumbled, dream-like into the still air.

Q tilted his head back, eyes huge and dark and wet with unshed tears. A slight shiver passed through him at the soft click as the collar locked into place, marking him with a visible sign of James' ownership. "With this collar, I swear to obey you, to follow and cherish you until the end of my days," he said softly, wonderingly, their gazes holding for a moment, then two, stretching into infinity.

It wasn't part of the ceremony, but James couldn't resist the urge to nuzzle Q's neck, feel the sensual slide of leather against skin and revel in its meaning. With a wet laugh, Q pressed against him. He smelled like citrus shampoo and new leather and roses and James felt like a besotted fool, smiling into his neck like some kind of giddy teenager but his heart was soaring. He felt like he could face anything in the world at that moment.

Eve cleared her throat teasingly, but her eyes were suspiciously moist as well. “If we could get on with it?”

Grinning like a loon, Q pulled away. He tugged at his hair in a nervous gesture, twirling the messy curls absentmindedly before catching himself and relaxing back into his stance before James. “Quite right, Miss Moneypenny. James?”

And that was the signal that James had been waiting for. He took Q’s left hand in his own, kissing the clever fingers adoringly once—twice—three times as Q rolled his eyes and tried not to blush. With a thorn on his own rose, he pricked Q’s middle finger gently, wincing apologetically at the shocked hiss his partner let out as a fat, rosy drop of blood escaped and trickled onto his own flower’s white petals. Innocence despoiled.

Blood was an inevitability of his job. It was simple: you’re winning as long as most of the blood covering your body isn’t your own. The flower burst of crimson on another man’s head; the chest-rattling cough that accompanied bloodied foam on the edges of one’s mouth—the precise hue and texture and taste was irrevocably engraved into his memory. Stained the tip of his fingers and the borders of his dreams. Even something as small, as inconsequential as this, made his stomach drop and his hands twitch toward the gun holstered at his back.

But no spray of bullets littered his suit. No harsh syllables of foreign languages or the sour breath of an enemy assassin. Q gave an apologetic smile; his quartermaster had monitored too many of his missions and watched him rinse the blood off his skin too many times not to know what he was thinking. James shook himself. This was not about the job.

After all, how many times had he laid awake listening to the lullaby of Q's heartbeat, to the _ba-dum_ of blood rushing through his veins?

***

_Then_

 

The front door clicked. Within moments, James had his gun in hand, trained steadily on the darkness beyond his bedroom walls.

"Get the fuck out," he growled when he recognized the familiar whip-thin figure, the mess of curls and sharp nose. Although he did lower the muzzle by a few inches. He'd rather it was a burglar or assassin. At least he could shoot them in good conscience.

Morocco had been an absolute cock-up. An entire plane full of passengers, obliterated within seconds and James could still see the horrified faces—it was not his first mission gone awry—you didn't stay as long as Bond has in the spying business without making a few mistakes along the way. But killing was a young man's game, and Bond’s bones were far too weary for him to be considered _young_ by any stretch of the imagination.

Q, foolish, cocky boy that he was, refused to budge. “I’m here to check on you.”

James laughed, a harsh, bitter sound that made himself flinch. “You came, you saw, now leave.” Then in a softer voice, because he couldn’t stand the tightness around Q’s jaw or the stiff way he held himself: “Please. Go.”

“Let me take care of you now, James.” Q took a half-step forward, then seemed to catch himself, resulting in an awkward shuffle-hop that made the corners of Bond’s mouth twitch up despite himself.

But he couldn’t let Q stay. He just couldn’t. Q was young, he had a bright future with MI6 and was attractive and intelligent. James had been selfish, agreeing to dominate him, but it was clear now that he was much too old and worn-out to be good for anything but killing.

 _Maybe not even that much_ , he mused tiredly, clenching and releasing his finger absently as if he could still feel the tacky pull of blood between the joints.

“Dammit,” he heard absently, the sound muffled as if it was coming from a detuned radio from the next room. Then a surprisingly strong and wiry body was beside him, pulling him forward. He tensed automatically, senses still on high alert after the adrenaline of the mission, but something about the soapy scent and the soft cardigan kept his instincts suppressed, and he allowed himself to relax into the comfort offered by the younger man.

“This is supposed to be my job,” he joked weakly when hands began to peel his clothes away. He shuddered at the _squelch_ when his blood-soaked shirt was peeled away from his skin, leaving a clammy sensation behind. He realized, to his surprise, that he was shivering.

A sigh, and the taps were turned on, quickly filling the small bathroom with hot steam. “I think we both know that this is more than just a purely sexual relationship. But if you want to think about it in those terms, you know I’m always happy to serve. Into the tub, please.”

The clear water instantly turned an unappealing shade of rusty brown as soon as James lowered himself into the tub, but the warmth soothed his muscles and with some measure of surprise, he discovered it to be his preferred temperature. Trust Q to be flawless, even when James was falling apart. “What else is it if not sex?” he asked weakly, in part to provoke Q, in part because he was genuinely curious about the answer.

Something flashed through Q’s eyes, far too quickly for James to catch in his hazy, numbed state. “You’ll figure it out,” came the quiet response, hanging in the air like a final, melancholy note.

***

_Now_

 

James cleared his throat, recalling the words he had laboured over for hours. Words he’d pried apart his soul to give voice to and that suddenly seemed painfully inadequate when faced with Q’s steady gaze.

"I'm not a good man, Q," he began, feeling the truth of the words in the fissures of his bones. "You've seen the things I've done in the name of England. I've killed more people than years I've lived. I've tortured and lied and cheated and slept with people whose names I didn't even know."

Q's eyes narrowed dangerously, and he looked on the cusp of bursting out in a rant like he did at every one of Mallory’s monthly budget meetings, so James barrelled ahead with the determination of a human steamroller. "I've only loved one other person, and when she died I thought that killing was all I would ever be good for. MI6's blunt little instrument, you know."

"But then I met you. And that first night I saw you in the club it felt like—it felt like being alive again. For the first time in a very, very long time I felt genuine desire for another human being, and God Q, you don't know what a relief that was, to be able to feel something other than apathy.

Every time I wake up to you it's like reclaiming something I didn't even know I'd lost. And every time you submit to me and give me the gift of your trust, I feel like a human being, not just another weapon. I was lost for so long, Q. But you found me. You found me and you lifted me out of the darkness and you made me the man I am today. And I swear right now, that I will never betray the trust you've placed in me. I will always come home to you, Q. I promise. And you know that I'm terrible at saying these things out loud, but I love you. I love you so much.”

“For the first time; for the last time; be mine.” His voice cracked on the last two words, but it didn’t matter because Q was crying too, smiling and crying and so full of joy that it felt like it wouldn’t matter if he let go a bit and let the liquid in his eyes spill over.

***

_Then_

“Stay,” says James, and Q pauses where he is attempting to struggle into a pair of cum-stained trousers. Light reflects off the silk of his hair, illuminating him in a halo of sunshine. There is a row of cardigans in James’ closet and a bottle of Visine on the nightstand.

“Alright.”

***

_Now_

"James. The first time I met you in the National Gallery I insinuated you were a relic. I'd like to apologize for that now.”

James snickered. Brat.

“But really, for all that I joke that you’re a dinosaur, you constantly challenge me and encourage me to grow. Despite what you might believe about yourself, you’re the kindest man I know, and I’m proud to give myself to you. Not just my body, but my mind and my soul. I trust you with every bit of me, you stupid, self-destructive man.

I will wait for you, James. I’ll never give up on you, and I’ll always be there to guide you home. To me. You'll always have a home with me.”

Then in a voice so soft that James had to lean in to hear it: “You’re not alone anymore.”

When they kissed, there was no lightning-shock in his bones, no earth shattering revelation about the philosophy of love and ownership. Q’s lips were soft and tasted of salty tears and Earl Grey and he kissed like he couldn’t get close enough to Bond and something about it felt so _right_ that it shattered the remaining threads of doubt and fear in Bond's heart, leaving nothing but joy behind.

He kept Q enveloped in his arms for the last part of the ceremony. Face buried in the familiar nest of curls, he couldn’t see what they were doing, but heard the soft clink of a chain as Alec and Eve passed the gleaming length quickly through the dying flames, then the hardly-there weight as it was draped over them, entwining them until they were one.

“This chain symbolizes the series of events that have led you to each other,” said Eve softly.

“May it continue to bind you together for the rest of your days,” continued Alec, voice for once devoid of any humour or teasing.

James thought about paintings and warships. He thought about a room full of sweaty bodies and strobe lights—no, of blueprints and computer screens—no, rumpled sheets and whiskey-laced breaths. He thought about how easy it would have been to give up on the tentative, fragile bond between them, in the early days.

Once, when James Bond was younger and angrier, a well-meaning priest had told him not to grieve for the death of his parents; that it was all part of God’s plan. James had broken his nose, and nearly gotten arrested by the village police.

He thought about how if he’d ever seen that priest again, he’d have a thing or two to teach him about fate.

It wasn’t fate that had drawn him and Q together. They had _chosen_ each other, and fought for each other each step of the way.

They weren’t soulmates. There was no divine intervention pushing them together, imbuing them with exactly the right list of traits and kinks and desires to draw them to each other. It wasn’t that simple.

 _They chose each other._ And wasn’t that just something?

***

_Then_

“I never want to get married,” said Q.

James glanced down from his book, at the place where Q reclined against his legs whilst dismantling a Heckler & Koch USP Compact. “Alright,” he replied after a minute’s stunned silence.

“Alright.”

Five minutes later, Q spoke again.

“It’s just...it’s such a horrid institution. Brings to mind images of fat tossers with beer guts and shrill women in bathrobes and hair curlers. And all that hassle with registration and ceremonies and people throwing rice at you.”

“Hmm,” replied Bond noncommittally.

“Indeed.”

Another five minutes of silence.

“Although,” said James thoughtfully, as though he’d only just came up with the idea. “Brilliant mind like yours, should have no trouble hacking into the national registries.” He kept his eyes fixed on the pages of _Ulysses_.

Q’s hand paused. “Yes, that’s true. And I suppose a small, private ceremony wouldn’t be too tacky. Something more to our tastes. A collar instead of rings, for example. Hypothetically speaking, of course. Pass the small polydrive, sir?”

“Hmm?”

“The screwdriver shaped like a star.”

James reached behind him. Grasped about a bit until he found the small tool wedged into the cushion. “Here you are. And yes, hypothetically speaking, that would be perfectly acceptable.”

The conversation was derailed as Q tightened the final screw, and the once-gun began to emit a series of beeps and flashes before firing a steady laser beam that immediately incinerated their fruit bowl.

A few days later, Q brought up the topic again.

“I hear that the tax benefits are spectacular.”

“What?” called James from the bedroom, where he was hunting down the cufflink from where he had tossed it under the dresser last night. Curse the double-oh instinct that demanded immediate gratification with no concept of consequences.

“Tax benefits. Do keep up, won’t you? And people bring you loads of gifts. I could finally collect the parts I need to build that experimental satellite I’ve been talking about.”

A pause.

“Q, do you want to get married?”

Something heavy thumped to the floor. Cufflink momentarily forgotten, James rushed out, only to be confronted with the sight of a heavily rumpled Q with only one shoe on, sprawled gracelessly on the ground.

“Are you asking?” retorted Q carelessly, pretending for all the world like he isn’t doing a spot-on imitation of a flipped turtle. “I believe the traditional method is with you on one knee. And a ring. Preferably after you’ve wined and dined me at London’s finest. Not that I’ve spent any amount of time thinking about this, of course—” he broke off as James pulled him up by the collar and snogged him senseless.

“Marry me, Q,” James growled. “No garish reception necessary. I'll buy you a collar and claim you as mine, and you can hack the records so we don’t have to bother with paperwork and Alec’ll probably blow something up in our honour. Just say you will.”

Q blinked. Once. Twice. Then broke out in the most radiant grin that James had seen on his face since that night they brought out the lingerie. “Well then, yes. Yes. I’ll marry you. James Bond. Gods, this is quite the Disney moment we’re having here, isn’t it?”

James laughed. “And we’ll live happily ever after.”

**Author's Note:**

> I considered writing about their wedding night but then I was like *waves hand dismissively*
> 
> The bedroom was totaled. They spent their honeymoon doing renovations.
> 
> Also! Their ceremony was based off [this one](http://seekers.org.uk/The%20Ceremony%20of%20the%20Roses.html), and you should all go click the link because the symbolism behind everything is absolutely beautiful.


End file.
